Looking for Space
by CaptAcorn
Summary: In which we learn exactly how much Tom Paris lost in the accident at Caldik Prime. Takes place pre-series. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** This is… well, I don't really know what this is, other than a lot longer than I intended. It's really just a character study in search of a plot. But I enjoyed writing this little foray into Tom's background, and I hope that some of you enjoy reading it. It's canon consistent, as long as you have a bit of a liberal interpretation of Tom's conversations with the Janeway in 30 Days. You could consider it a prequel to my story _Redemption_ , but it's definitely not necessary to read that to understand this (although I'd love it if you did!). A big thank you to Sareki02 for beta reading some of this for me, as well as helping me with some of the details. Standard disclaimers apply. And screw you, Pathways. I have chosen to ignore you almost completely.

Chapter 1

 _Christmas Day 2368_

Tom Paris stared at the two pips in his hand. He wanted to throw them across the room. Even better, he wanted to throw them at his father. But he still needed them one last time. He was quite sure he'd never need them again after that, but for tomorrow - better to show up in full uniform. Admiral Nmembe was sure to get some pleasure from ripping them off his collar; why deny her that small gift, especially given the time of year? So into the bag they went, nestled amongst the neatly folded civvies, and one lonely red-shouldered uniform.

He closed the bag and gripped the handle, only to turn and see his mother standing in the doorway to his room. "I thought I heard someone moving around up here," she said, smiling at him. "Merry Christmas, darling." She took in his heavy jacket and the duffle in his hand. "Tom? What are you doing?"

She looked so vulnerable standing there - in her nightgown and robe, no makeup, hair long and natural. This was not how Julia Paris liked to present herself to the world and it was rare for Tom to see her this way. He wondered, fleetingly, how often she let even his father see this version of herself. He wished she hadn't been awake. Seeing his mother before he left was not the plan.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," he said, only briefly meeting her eyes. "There's something I need to take care of."

"On Christmas Day? Tom, that's ridiculous. The whole family is coming! Your sister is bringing her fiancé - you haven't even met him yet. Surely this can wait until tomorrow?" His mother gave him her most winning smile, one that many an elderly aunt had told Tom he'd inherited. It was hard to resist under the best of circumstances. And today - today Tom wanted nothing more than to put the bag back down on the bed, to follow his mother downstairs for coffee and bacon and freshly made croissants with real Irish butter, the promise of rack of lamb and chestnut stuffing and the _buche de Noel_ for the afternoon, to hear his laughing cousins tell the same stories he'd heard a hundred times. But then there was tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. And so he resisted.

"I'm sorry, Mom. But it can't." He shouldered the bag and hugged her tightly. She'd never let him do this to her when she was fully dressed and presentable. Right now it had the added advantage in that he didn't have to look at the disappointment in her face. "Make my apologies to everyone?" he said into her hair. He let go of her and moved into the hallway towards the stairs, still avoiding her eyes.

"Tom, wait! At least have some coffee first. We can talk!" she called after him.

He stopped where he was, already halfway down the stairs. "It's too late for that, Mom. I really am sorry." He finally turned and met her eyes. "I love you."

"But what will I tell your father when he wakes up? He's going to be so disappointed!"

Tom let out a humorless laugh as he opened the front door. "You have no idea."

He stood for a moment on the porch of the ancient Queen Anne home the Paris family had owned for generations. He wondered if he'd ever be allowed to enter it again after tomorrow. "Merry Fucking Christmas," he muttered to himself, as he stepped off the porch and headed for the nearest transport station, soon disappearing into the early morning San Francisco fog.


	2. Chapter 2

_January 2363_

Cadet Tom Paris viewed the monitor on his desk with a barely controlled sense of panic. On it were displayed the grades from his first semester at the Academy, and they were not acceptable. They had been released only twenty minutes prior but already he had a blinking icon in the corner of his screen, indicating waiting messages. It had to be the Admiral. How could a little yellow dot look so accusatory?

Really, it wasn't _that_ bad. I mean, a B+ average is downright respectable. It was his first semester at a new school! All kinds of intense pressure! He got an A in Intro to Astrophysics! And Biochemistry! If only he hadn't fallen in love with his cruel, heartless lab partner, that Stellar Cartography grade would have been much higher.

 _Who am I trying to fool here? The Admiral is not exactly known for his sympathy regarding matters of the heart._ Tom started to bang his head against the surface of the desk.

"Hey, I'm no expert, only being a first year engineering student and all; but I'm pretty sure that is not good for you," said an unfamiliar voice.

Tom jerked his head up to see a shortish, red-haired cadet regarding him with an expression of amused bewilderment. He was carrying a suitcase. "Uh, can I help you?" Tom said.

The cadet thrust out his hand confidently towards Tom. "Charlie Day," he said. "I'm your new roommate."

"New roommate?" Tom said, confused. "But Ichigo…" He looked to the other side of his dorm room, and noticed for the first time since he'd returned from break an hour ago that it was empty of any personal belongings.

"Must've dropped out," Charlie replied and looked over Tom's shoulder. "Maybe it's in one of those...wow, seven messages you're ignoring? Hey, nice GPA! Mom! Dad!" he called over his shoulder, "Looks like I'm moving up in the world! Roommate-wise, at least." He winked conspiratorially at Tom. "My last one washed out. He totally bombed Stellar Cartography. I mean, seriously, what kind of idiot fails _that_ class?"

Tom quickly shut his console. "Your parents are here?" he asked, looking towards the door.

Charlie had already opened his suitcase on the other bed. "Yeah, they'll be along in a sec. I'm an only, you know, so they feel like they have to document every moment of my life. There's probably a detailed list of my sock preferences somewhere, and possibly a holovid compilation of my first day of school pictures from the last thirteen years. Which reminds me, watch out for my Dad's holocamera. He's brutal."

As if on cue, Tom looked up to have a flash go off in his face. "Ah!" said a man that looked like someone had put his son in a time machine and sent him thirty years into the future, "You must be Charlie's new roommate! Mitchell Day!" He reached out for Tom's hand in a gesture exactly the same as his son's.

Tom stood quickly into an at-ease position and extended his right hand. "Yes, sir. Cadet Tom Paris, sir."

Mr. Day started laughing, "At ease, Cadet!"

Charlie sighed from where he was unpacking. "He _is_ at-ease, Dad. And relax, Paris, my parents are definitely _not_ Starfleet."

"Paris?" The older Day said. "Any relation to Vice Admiral Paris?"

Tom cleared his throat. "Yes, sir... I mean, Mr. Day. Admiral Paris is my father."

"Well, well, well!" Mr. Day clapped him hard on the shoulder, "Charlie, you _are_ moving up in the world!"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Mitchell, don't be such an ass. You're going to embarrass the poor boy." A petite brown haired woman bustled into the room, her face mostly blocked by the large box in her arms. "And why don't you put down that infernal camera and take this!"

Tom quickly came to her rescue, "Here, ma'am, let me get that for you."

"Thank you, dear, you're very kind." She beamed at him. "Tom, you said? I'm Elizabeth Cornwall. Charlie's mum, and to my occasional regret, Mitchell's wife." She elbowed her husband in the side, but Tom didn't miss the affection in her tone.

The various members of the Day family spent the next hour unpacking Charlie's things, decorating the dorm room, plying Tom with homemade cookies, and engaging in a large amount of good natured teasing. Tom was initially taken aback at how easy Charlie was with his parents, but quickly got into the spirit of things as Elizabeth (both she and Mitchell insisted on first names) gently got him to open up about his own family and interests and coursework. "That must be quite a bit of pressure, having descended from generations of Starfleet officers. I'm afraid I would have run screaming in the opposite direction if I were you," she said at one point, an understanding smile on her face.

"Actually," Tom said, blushing a little, "I did consider…"

"Thomas." A quiet, stern voice interrupted his thought. It came from a man with ice blue eyes and short-cropped grey hair. He filled the doorway of the small room.

"Admiral on deck!" Tom responded immediately, and turned to face his father in full attention stance. Charlie followed suit a beat later.

"At ease, cadets," he intoned, in the same soft but commanding tone. He walked past the young men and headed straight to Charlie's family. "You must be Cadet Day's parents. Vice Admiral Owen Paris," he said, hand extended.

Tom didn't dare turn around to see Mitchell's and Elizabeth's reactions to his imposing father, so he was surprised at the change in tone when Charlie's mother spoke. Gone was the warm and friendly voice she used with her family. It was replaced by one that was crisp and professional and very British. "Elizabeth Cornwall. And this is my husband, Mitchell Day."

"Cornwall?" Owen asked. "As in the ethics professor from Harvard Law?"

"The very one."

"We wanted you to teach here," the Admiral responded, his tone implying that he didn't understand why something he wanted hadn't come to pass.

"Yes, you did."

He came around to Charlie now and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, Day, you come from impressive stock. I also hear from Professor Lanka that your final paper for Quantum Mechanics was well beyond typical first year work. Well done."

"Thank you, sir!"

"Don't let your new roommate be a bad influence on you, now." Tom's father said, aiming a sidelong glance at his son. "Tom's approach to his studies can be a bit casual."

"I'm sure it won't be an issue, sir!"

Tom couldn't risk a grateful look at his new roommate, as much as he wanted to show him one. Charlie had just given his father a response that was not just respectful but also managed to stick up for a guy he met only an hour ago. It showed a gift for insinuation that Tom himself had yet to master, and he'd dealt with the man his whole life.

"If you all will excuse us, I need to have a word with my son. Thomas, the corridor please." He stopped before he followed Tom into the hallway. "You should give my aide your contact information. I'm sure my wife would love to have you to the house for dinner."

Tom started to walk towards the exit of the dormitory, assuming they were heading for his father's office. "Here will be fine, Tom, I've got a briefing in fifteen," his father said from a spot only steps outside his room.

"Right here?" Tom said, uncertain. "It's just... people are coming back from break, there's a lot of foot traffic."

"Maybe if you hadn't ignored the half a dozen messages I sent, I wouldn't have had to waste time walking across campus."

Tom swallowed hard. "Yes, sir." Steady on, Cadet. You can handle this. Time to fortify against the enemy.

"I suspect you know what I'm going to say, Thomas." And Thomas certainly did. He knew it so well he could almost recite the lecture the Admiral was giving him word for word. This iteration's subject might be Stellar Cartography, but the main themes of Parental Disappointment, Startling Lack of Discipline and the granddaddy of them all, Not Living up to Your Potential were all touched upon. As per usual, the Admiral's voice started out calm, but gradually escalated in tone until he was near shouting. He always seemed to be frustrated by Tom's lack of an appropriate response, despite the fact that he never allowed his son to speak during one of his sermons. Tom's general strategy at this point was one of feigned retreat. Look like you're listening, internally consider what you might want to replicate for dinner. This time Tom was so tuned out, he nearly missed the punchline.

"And what about Biochemistry?" his father demanded. Was this some sort of diversionary tactic? Proceed with caution, Cadet.

"I got an A in Biochem," Tom said, indignant. Counter-attack! Finally he had a leg to stand on.

"Yes, the grade is fine, Tom, but why did you take it? Biochemistry is not a standard part of the command track curriculum."

Ambush! Tom wasn't expecting this. Going to battle against the Admiral unprepared was near suicide. "Last summer, when I was picking classes, I talked to Kath. She thought, I mean, I thought… The sciences.. Well rounded..." His voice petered out into an unintelligible mumble. Major tactical error! Crap. It had made sense when his sister had said it.

"Did Kathleen join Starfleet when I wasn't looking?" his father asked him. Turning maneuver - his father was the master of isolating his enemies from their allies.

"No, sir." When in doubt, retreat and regroup.

"Your sister's proclivity for the life sciences is irrelevant to your academic career. Your mother thinks I should give you more freedom to make your own decisions. But it's clear to me you're not ready for that. I've fixed your schedule for the semester, you should review it before classes start tomorrow." He handed Tom a PADD.

Tom looked it over. "But you've changed nearly everything! What about Temporal Mechanics? And Submolecular Biology? And you put me in your section of Survival Strategies." And… he was whining. The Tom Paris version of running up the white flag. Total capitulation. _Maybe I_ should _have taken more command track classes._

"The classes you had showed absolutely no direction or focus; it's like you picked them randomly out of a hat. This schedule is much better for what you want to do," his father said off-handedly, looking at a second PADD in his hand.

"What you want me to do, you mean." He should have known better than to think he could ever score a win. His father was one of the foremost experts on wars of attrition, after all.

His father sighed, and his face softened. A little. "Tom, I know you don't believe me, but I do have your best interests at heart. You're a Paris. The fast track to a command posting is yours for the taking. And you have everything you need to make it happen - talent, charisma, natural leadership abilities. You can do this - but only if you believe you can. And until you do, I'll believe it for you." He tapped the PADD he was carrying lightly against Tom's shoulder. "Your mother wants you home for dinner on Sunday. I'm already late." And without further ceremony, the Admiral walked briskly down the corridor.

Tom slowly re-entered his dorm room, head down, shoulders slumped, and focusing very hard on pushing down the emotions that were fighting to overwhelm him. He looked up to see the entirety of the Day family lined up on Charlie's bed, spines straight and looking anywhere but at him. He wondered in the back of his mind if they'd meant to organize themselves in order of descending height.

"Sorry you had to hear all that," he started to apologize.

The family immediately sprung to life, all talking at once.

"What are you talking about? Hear what?"

"Don't worry about it, dear, we could barely make out what was said!"

"Did you leave the room, Tom? I didn't notice!"

Tom just remained where he was standing, blinking at them.

Charlie's mother broke first. "My God, family, we are the worst collection of liars in the entire quadrant!" she moaned, her face in her hands.

Surprising even himself, Elizabeth's distress struck Tom as immensely funny and he burst out laughing. His reaction seemed to relieve the Days a great deal, and they all came up to him, still talking over each other in their rush to reassure him.

Mitchell ended the commotion by clapping him on the shoulder once again. "Clearly you are a man who needs a drink! We're going to that new Moroccan-Bolian fusion place in the Mission. You should join us for dinner!"

"You _will_ join us for dinner," Elizabeth said firmly, meeting his eyes despite their difference in height.

"Thank you for the invitation, but-" Tom started.

"They won't take no for an answer, Paris. Just give up now." Charlie interrupted, his chin resting lightly on his mother's head.

"OK," he said, since surrender was apparently the Tom Paris word of the day, "But just dinner. Alcohol and I don't really mix. There was an... incident a few years ago, involving some Romulan ale and my father's shuttle. And a lake."

Mitchell had his arm around his shoulders now, and was guiding him out the door. "If at first you don't succeed - try, try again. That applies to alcohol as much as anything in life, Tom."

"Really, Mitchell, you've already corrupted our own child, isn't that enough?" Elizabeth squeezed Tom's hand affectionately. "Don't worry, love. I'll look after you."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Full credit goes to Sareki for the idea of Bolian fusion. Such a great, and yet terrible, idea. Also, I've hidden little Easter Eggs throughout the story, some fairly obvious (why does a pilot take a single semester of biochem?) and some very very subtle. I'm curious if anybody will catch them - please post a comment if you figure them out.


	3. Chapter 3

_June 2363_

Tom and Charlie left the transport station on Fillmore and started their walk up to Pacific Heights. His roommate was relaxed and chatty, but Tom felt like his stomach was in a vise. His mother had been harassing him for months to arrange a time for Charlie and his parents to come to the house for dinner. Tom had managed to put her off with a variety of excuses - his piloting exam, Charlie's Advanced Warp Theory project, Elizabeth's teaching schedule. But the Academy had just entered the two week break before the newly christened second year cadets left for physical training, and Harvard's semester was over as well. _Finally, it's all managed to come together!_ his mother had commed him happily last week. Fantastic.

When Julia Paris had first proposed the idea back in January, Tom thought, _Sure, why not?_ He wasn't expecting it to be a barrel of laughs, but he'd certainly suffered through plenty of dinners with his father's friends and colleagues before. At least at this one he'd actually like the people that were invited.

But that was before he found out the truth about Charlie's parents. Or more specifically, Charlie's mother.

Being enrolled in his father's section of Survival Strategies had gone about as well as he had predicted. His father had been exacting in his demands on his son - apparently the appearance of impartiality could only be achieved by making Tom work twice as hard as everyone else. There were not a few occasions during the semester that Charlie had been subjected to Tom railing against the unfairness of it all.

"You know, Paris," Charlie said calmly after a particularly heated venting session, "The grass is always greener."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Tom asked him, still fuming from the latest injustice done against him.

"Look, I'm not going to pretend that my relationship with my parents is nearly as fraught as the one you have with your father," Charlie started.

"I sure as hell hope not! Your parents are great!" Tom was being completely sincere. Since becoming Charlie's roommate, he'd felt like he had become an honorary member of the Day family. Both Mitchell's and Elizabeth's work brought them into the area not infrequently. They always made time to spend with both boys, and sometimes even Tom alone if Charlie was busy. Tom had found Elizabeth particularly a ready confidant and something of a mentor.

Charlie gave him an exasperated look. "Except when they're not, Tom. Listen, I'm glad you find my mom so easy to talk to, and you know I love them. But it would be nice if they were occasionally interested in what _I_ do day to day. Neither one of them understands word one of the engineering stuff, and my mom doesn't want to understand the Starfleet part."

Tom looked at him, confused. "What do you mean, she doesn't want to understand?" He and Elizabeth had often discussed Tom's coursework and career plans, and she was known to give him valuable input on his command track papers.

"I mean she doesn't want to hear about why I'm choosing to study engineering here at the Academy, vs. MIT or Caltech. She thinks I'm being brainwashed." Charlie ran his hands through his hair, and gave a short sigh of frustration at Tom's continued perplexed expression. "You know my mom teaches ethics, right? Well, did you know one of her most popular classes is called 'The Fallacy of the Prime Directive and Its Impact on Developing Systems'? She started teaching it right after she turned down the job here. She's writing a book on the same subject."

Tom just stared at Charlie, wondering if he was joking.

"Yeah, exactly. So you can imagine how thrilled she was when I was told her I was applying to the Academy. We were so loud I think our neighbors called the police."

"She's never said anything negative about Starfleet to me," Tom insisted.

"Of course not. She knows who your family is, and what your last name means. She likes you a lot, Tom, she doesn't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

"But, your dad? He doesn't feel the same way?" Tom asked hopefully.

"My dad," Charlie said, swiveling back to his desk and his materials science text, "likes to drink a lot of wine, make up shit to say about it, and defer to my mom on all things political."

So to say that Tom was dreading the upcoming second meeting between his father and Elizabeth Cornwall was an understatement.

"Wow," Charlie was saying. "I've never been up this way before. Will you look at these houses? How many connections do you have to have to get live in one of these? I mean, look at that massive yellow one! It has a turret!"

Tom chewed on his lower lip. "Um...that's my house."

Charlie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "Seriously, Paris? You've been holding out on me! I'm burning with questions!" He paused to study the house, cocking his head to one side. "For example, what exactly does one do with a turret in the 24th century? Wait, I know! Is that where your Dad locks you up when you bring home a C?"

"Shut the fuck up, Day," Tom said good naturedly. His friend had a way of taking the piss out of him that made his problems seem significantly less important. It was a valuable skill that Tom frequently took advantage of (and Charlie didn't seem to mind wielding at a moment's notice).

"Whatever, Paris. All I know is now that I've seen your house, you're buying the first - and the second - round of drinks that we have to forget how terrible this dinner is going to be."

Tom made a face at him as they mounted the front stairs of his house. "You think it's going to be that bad, huh?"

"Does a Ferengi like profit?" Charlie replied.

It started out fine, as these things tend to do. There were introductions and re-introductions all around. The typical "What a lovely home", "New England must be beautiful this time of year", "Have you always lived in San Francisco," that sort of thing. They discussed Julia's work with various philanthropic organizations around the city, and Mitchell's work as a sommelier. And then things started to go south. It was minor at first, and Tom initially thought the evening might be saved. But it was just a portent of things to come.

"Tom, the bottle I brought is a real gem - it's a Cotes de Provence rosé," Mitchell told him as they gathered in the living room for hors d'oeuvres. "I thought we could open it to toast to your impending transfer to the Marseille campus."

"Actually, Mitchell, Owen and I don't believe in allowing the children to drink alcohol," Julia Paris said. "Canape?"

"Children, Julia?" Elizabeth Cornwall snorted. "They're nearly twenty years old. And Tom is one of the most considerate and responsible young men I've ever met."

"Mom," Charlie said, with a hint of a pleading tone, "It's not a big deal. Tom and I don't need to have the wine."

"Well, of course it's a not a big deal. And of course we'll honor any rules of the household," replied Elizabeth archly. "I just think it's a bit rich to call twenty year olds enrolled in a military academy 'children.'"

"Julia!" Mitchell exclaimed loudly. "These salmon puffs are incredible! You'll need to tell me your secret so I can pass it on to the chef at my restaurant!"

Tom internally sighed with relief that Mitchell seemed to provide adequate distraction and his father didn't take the bait. Too bad that was the least incendiary thing Elizabeth Cornwall said that night. And too bad his father was just biding his time, waiting for the best moment to launch his counter-attack.

"Elizabeth," Owen said suddenly over their entree of confit de canard, after having barely spoken for the entire soup course, "I get the impression that you don't think highly of Starfleet."

"I wouldn't say that, Owen," she replied coolly. "I just take issue with some of your policies."

"Some of our policies!" Owen laughed, but Tom was quite sure he found none of this amusing. "Like the Prime Directive? The cornerstone of our mission statement?" He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "I've heard about that class you teach."

"Well, then you'll know that I don't object to the basic tenet of the Directive. I only take issue when it's followed blindly, with no room made for compassion."

"Julia," Mitchell broke in, as he placed a hand over his wife's. "What a lovely Marcillac you've found to pair with the duck. Most people these days haven't even heard of this appellation."

"Thank you, Mitchell," Julia replied, her smile a bit over bright. "I fancy myself a bit of an oenophile. Very much an amateur compared to yourself, of course. Do you have a particular interest in French wines?"

Tom and Charlie, seated at opposite corners of the table, made eye contact. It was clear both were hoping that their more temperate parent would prevail and the conversation would turn.

"But who's to say what's compassion, and what's interference?" _Nope, Dad's not letting this drop._ "How would _Harvard_ propose we even go about making a decision like that? I'm genuinely curious." Tom knew that his father was, in fact, not curious at all. This was not a new argument for Owen Paris. Tom suspected he'd been trained to defend the Prime Directive from the womb.

But this wasn't a new argument for Elizabeth Cornwall, either. "I think it's a matter of common sense and simple human decency when the potential for good outweighs the possible negatives. Take Nuegara II, for example. If the Federation had gotten involved, we could have prevented millions of lives from being lost during the earthquake. We had the technology to help them!" _Ouch,_ thought Tom. His father hadn't been directly involved in that debacle, but no one in the 'Fleet had been happy with the outcome there.

"Except that their government declined our assistance!" Owen banged his fork onto the table. Simply being unhappy with an outcome didn't mean the Admiral wouldn't defend his colleagues' decisions with his dying breath.

"Would anyone like more duck?" Julia asked, as a last ditch attempt to redirect.

"A government that had gotten a vote of no confidence from almost fifty percent of the population! How can that not be taken into account?" _Another score for the professor from Harvard_ , thought Tom. _Poor Mom._

"And at what point does that number become irrelevant? Thirty percent? Twenty? Five? That is why we need a single policy with clear guidelines! Otherwise the process gets so bogged down in debate that nothing gets accomplished! History has shown that time and again!" _Actually_ , Tom considered, _the Admiral does have a point._

"History has also shown that the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing! How can we turn a blind eye to atrocities happening right in front of us, and not do a thing to stop them?" Elizabeth demanded. "How do we justify that? I mean, look at the Bajoran Occupation!"

 _Shit shit shit._ Tom shot a desperate look at his mother. Her panicked expression told him she didn't have an escape plan either.

Owen's tone, not exactly toasty to begin with, dropped by several degrees. "What about the Bajoran Occupation, exactly?"

"The forced labor camps! The insane justice system! Have you heard what's being done to that planet? It will be uninhabitable within another decade. It's practically genocide! Do you even understand what the Cardassians are capable of?" Elizabeth's voice had risen considerably, and she was full on glaring at the Admiral.

Owen slammed his wine glass so hard onto the table that the stem shattered. "I am not going to sit here and have my life's work attacked in my own home. Excuse me." And with that, he stormed out of the dining room.

Julia left her place to go after him, "Tom…" she turned to give a pleading look to her son.

"Go, Mom," he said softly as he rose to standing. "I can take care of this." He turned to regard the dining room filled with dirty plates, half eaten duck, and newly unwanted guests. "So," he said with a forced smile. "I think we should probably skip dessert."

"Tom, I'm sorry." Elizabeth came around the table to where he was standing. "I didn't meant to upset him. It's just something I'm very passionate about. But considering who he is, the influence he has - he can't just walk away when someone challenges his views." She reached out to him, trying to make contact, but Tom backed away.

"I'm really sorry," he said to Mitchell, finding he was having trouble meeting Elizabeth's eyes, "but I think it's best if you leave."

"Of course, Tom," Mitchell replied and coaxed his wife towards the front door. Charlie followed close behind.

An hour later, after picking up the broken glass and helping their housekeeper Barra load what felt like a hundred dishes through the refresher, Tom emerged onto his front porch to find his roommate waiting for him.

Tom sat next to him on the steps and elbowed him. "Nice of you to wait out here. I absolutely didn't need any help cleaning up. You would have just been in the way."

"I do try to be as helpful as possible," Charlie replied. "Like when I didn't listen to my instincts and throw myself bodily in front of my mother to stop her from coming tonight. Just think, had I done that, we would have missed out on this lovely meal."

"That would have been a tragedy." Tom agreed. "After all, now that Survival Strategies is over, I needed a new reason to be pissed at my dad." He clapped Charlie on the back and stood up. "Come on, I think I owe you a drink or five."

"I don't know, Paris," Charlie said, "I don't like to encourage children to drink."

"I've said it before and I'm sure I'll say it again, Day: Shut the fuck up."

"Fair enough. And I'll only make you buy the first round." The two cadets started off down the hill.

"We should do this again sometime, don't you think?" Charlie said.

"Definitely," replied Tom. "Next century work for you?"

"I'll check my calendar."

* * *

 **A/N** : I couldn't get all of the proper French accents to work, so sorry some are missing. In my head canon, I suppose because their last name is Paris, Tom's family has a decent amount of French heritage. Also, if anyone is interested - the story's title comes from the John Denver song of the same name. But you have to listen to the Evan Dando (formerly of the Lemonheads) cover - that specific version makes me think of Tom.


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N:_** Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews! And a special shoutout to Juddysbuddy, who noticed one of my more subtle references to the series (i.e. why Tom is hopeless at temporal mechanics. Just another thing to blame his dad for...)

* * *

 _December 2363_

Tom sneezed all over his console, obscuring his mother's face for a fraction of second until the environmental filter dissolved the mucous. "Sorry," he said.

"It's fine, darling," his mother said. "It's not like you sneezed on my actual face. But please get a tissue." She was smiling at him, but it was clear there was something distracting her. "Now there's something I have to tell you about Christmas."

"Me, too," he said, sniffling. "I was going to call you later to warn you I'm sick." Tom paused for a coughing fit. "It's some kind of Andorian rhinovirus. But don't worry, you guys can't get it - the doctor said that humans are only contagious before they show any symptoms. I didn't want you to take one look at me and put me into quarantine."

"Poor thing," his mother said. "The doctor can't give you anything?"

"No," Tom sighed. "I just have to ride it out. I have to tell you, though, I'm really glad I'm going to be home in my own bed tomorrow night."

His mother's forehead creased. "Darling, that's what I called to tell you. Your father has to take an urgent trip to Vulcan."

Despite his mother's concern, Tom was relieved to hear this news. Even though he wasn't taking a class with his father anymore, having Tom as a student seemed to trigger the Admiral in taking an even more active interest in his son's academic performance than he had before. Every conversation now felt like an inquisition, and Tom suspected Owen was talking to his instructors behind his back. It would actually be nice to have a quiet holiday with his mom and sisters, get fussed over a bit, be the baby of the family again.

Unfortunately, as she continued to talk, Tom realized that's not what his mother had in mind. His sisters had already made other plans, and his mother had even sent Bones, their elderly spaniel, off to stay with the housekeeper. Tom was on his own. "But why do _you_ have to go? Last I checked, you resigned your commission over twenty years ago," he whined.

His mother gave him her disappointed look. _Ugh_ , Tom thought, _anything but that._ "I know how hard you've been working, and I know you were looking forward to some time at home, but I have other priorities right now. Your father's going through a bit of a rough patch - do you remember Katie Janeway? She was involved in some sort of firefight near the Cardassian border. She's fine, but I think it's brought up some bad memories. He'd never want to let the 'Fleet down, of course, so he won't say anything to his colleagues. But he needs my support right now."

 _Nice that the Admiral can ruin my holiday even when we're not spending it together_ , Tom thought as he signed off a few minutes later. He had promised his mother he would find something to do with himself, but he was at a complete loss as to what that might be. If he wasn't sick, he might just hang out at Sandrine's the whole holiday - the proprietor had a certain fondness for him and his pool game was getting pretty good - but when he'd shown up there earlier today for a bowl of soup, she'd made him take it to go.

"I don't care if you're not contagious, _chéri_ ," she said as she rushed him out the door. "You look like death warmed over. _C'est trés mal pour l'affaire_."

Six months ago he would have called the Days as soon as he'd ended the call with his mother, but that terrible dinner last spring had made things uneasy between Tom and Elizabeth. He still exchanged messages and comms with Charlie on a regular basis, who had chosen to do his physical training on Mars, but he hadn't had any real contact with his erstwhile roommate's parents since that night. With no other options, Tom bundled himself up as best as he could and ventured outside for supplies - many shops would close early tomorrow for Christmas Eve, and if he was going to be alone, he might as well at least have some comfort food.

He hadn't yet made it to his favorite boulangerie when he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Elizabeth Cornwall waving at him from across the street. In his illness-induced fog, he just stared at her blankly as she made her way through the holiday crowds to his spot on the sidewalk. "Tom! I'm so glad I've run into you!" she cried cheerfully. "Happy Christmas!" She took a closer look at him. "Why, you look terrible."

"I'm sick," he said - unnecessarily, as he was soon beset by a rather violent sneezing fit.

"I can see that, love," Elizabeth said, amused and concerned all at once. "Why are you out of bed?"

Something about the understanding way Elizabeth looked at him always made Tom admit to things he had fully planned on keeping to himself, and he soon found himself telling her the whole pathetic story. As they talked, he found out she had given a guest lecture today at nearby Aix-Marseilles, ("I must admit, I had an ulterior motive in agreeing to it. I was on my way to look for you when you turned up all on your own."). He also realized she was gently guiding him back to Academy housing, ("You shouldn't be out and about in your condition."). When they reached the front door of his dormitory, she told him she'd come up with him to help him pack a bag.

"For what?" he asked, his voice growing more hoarse by the minute.

"You're coming with me. If you think I can have a nice holiday knowing you're here, alone and sick on Christmas, then you've got another think coming," she told him firmly. "Charlie and Mitchell would love to see you as well."

"Isn't it 'thing'?" Tom asked.

"You're missing the point, love," Elizabeth told him. "And it's definitely 'think'. Come on, now."

Less than an hour later, Tom found himself curled up next to Elizabeth on a luxury shuttle heading over the Atlantic. The remaining awkwardness between them was dissipating quickly, and Tom was feeling drowsy. When she offered him her shoulder as a pillow, he took advantage almost immediately.

"Tom, I want to apologize. About my terrible behavior during dinner last spring," Elizabeth said quietly.

 _Oh, hey, awkwardness. I was wondering where you were_ , thought Tom as he sat up _._ "It's fine," was all he said aloud.

"It's not really. I'm not saying I don't violently disagree with your father on most things." Tom snorted at this. "But we were guests in your home and, as Mitchell likes to remind me, sometimes it's more important to be polite than it is to be right. Only sometimes, though," she winked at him. "Now put your head back down."

Tom complied. "You wrote my mom a letter to apologize," he said after a moment.

"I did."

"She appreciated it. My father still refuses to mention your name, though." He wondered if he should say what was really bothering him.

"I'm not surprised," she said with a small smile.

"You never wrote _me_ ," he blurted out sulkily.

"Thomas Eugene Paris!" she declared, causing Tom to jerk his head off her shoulder again. "Don't look at me like that, of course Charlie told me your middle name. And I made numerous attempts to contact you - you didn't return any of my messages! To you, I wanted to apologize in person. This is simply my first opportunity. Don't be such a child."

"Sorry," he said, rapidly filling with guilt at how he had ignored her the last several months.

"Oh for goodness' sake, it's fine. Now put your head _down_. We won't be in Boston for over forty five minutes and you can have a bit of a nap."

As soon as they arrived at the Days' house in Cambridge, Elizabeth sat him down with a bowl of tomato soup and then packed him off to bed, with a strict admonishment to both Mitchell and Charlie that they leave Tom alone to rest. He woke up twelve hours later on the morning of Christmas Eve to find that, while he wasn't fully recovered, he was feeling far better than he had the day before. Not well enough in Elizabeth's opinion, however.

"But I love skiing!" he complained when he found out Mitchell and Charlie were going off to Maine without him.

"And you'll love it just as much in two days' time when they go again, and you are well enough accompany them," Elizabeth said as she hustled her son and husband out the door, Charlie making faces at Tom behind his mother's back. "You can keep me company here, where it's warm and dry."

In the end, Tom had to admit it was pretty nice. They drank tea, and decorated cookies, and Tom convinced her to share numerous embarrassing stories about her son, (it didn't take much encouragement). Ancient holiday music played in the background, and it reminded Tom of past childhood Christmases when his relationship with his parents was far less complicated. As the sun faded into the dim light of a winter afternoon, he realized he wasn't as recovered as he thought, and Elizabeth sent him back to bed to rest before "the boys get home, and don't give you a moment's peace."

Despite Elizabeth's concern, when Tom emerged from the guest room a couple of hours later, he saw Charlie working quietly in his room on his latest engineering project, and he heard Elizabeth and Mitchell having a hushed conversation in the kitchen. Not wanting to disturb them, he sat in front of the fireplace in the living room and watched the twinkling lights of the tree. As Charlie's parents conversation grew more heated, however, it got harder for Tom to pretend he couldn't hear them.

"You don't know the whole story, Beth." Mitchell was saying. "There might be a very good reason she had to go. And it's not like Tom is a helpless child."

"Julia made it very clear at that dreadful dinner that _she_ still thinks of him as a child," Elizabeth snarked. "And if Tom isn't helpless, Owen Paris certainly isn't either. She seems like a nice enough woman - why would she possibly want to stay with that awful man is beyond me."

"Beth, I'll say it again: you don't know everything there is to know about Owen and Julia Paris," her husband said patiently. Tom's stomach sank when he realized this was clearly not the first time Mitchell and Elizabeth had discussed his family. "You went into that dinner looking for a fight, it's not really fair for you to be upset that you got one."

"But I didn't get one - he ran away! So much for his almighty principles," Elizabeth said scornfully. "And frankly, I know all I need to know about Owen Paris. What Tom himself hasn't told me, Charlie has. He pushes that boy far too hard. If Tom doesn't learn to stand up to him, he's going to break, Mitchell. Mark my words."

Tom didn't know if he was angry on his father's behalf, humiliated that Elizabeth thought his psyche was so fragile, or grateful that at least someone understood how difficult things were for him. He did know that he needed to get out of this room before anyone noticed he was here. He stood too quickly in his urgency, and stubbed his stockinged foot on the heavy wooden table in front of the couch. "Shit," he spat out involuntarily as the pain shot through his foot.

"Oh, Tom." Elizabeth said sorrowfully, as she appeared in the doorway of the living room. "I suppose you were here all this time."

"Yeah," Tom muttered, rubbing his injured toes.

"I'm sorry, love. You shouldn't have heard all that," she said as she came around the couch and tried to help him sit back down.

Tom pulled away from her. "You shouldn't have said it at all. You don't know what you're talking about." _OK, I'm going with angry at the moment._

"I know that you never really wanted to join Starfleet," she said calmly as she sat down on the sofa. "And I know that your father pushed you to do it anyway. And that he's still pushing you to do what he wants, not what you want."

"It wasn't like that," he seethed. " _I_ made the decision to apply to the Academy. Yeah, it's because of what he wanted but it was _my_ decision! You don't understand anything."

"So why don't you explain it to me?" She patted the cushion next to her. "Please. I hate for you to be angry with me. Help me understand."

Tom knew Elizabeth cared about him. Even more importantly, he knew she was one of the only adults in his life - maybe _the_ only - that actually listened to what he had to say and thought it worthwhile. He sank into the sofa. "This may take awhile," he finally said.

"We've got oodles of time," said Elizabeth. "Mitchell's on cooking duty tonight, and he's a fussy chef. He'll probably need Charlie to re-program the replicator to make the right sort of mushrooms or some such before he's done."

Tom took a deep breath. "It happened during my last year of high school, before the Academy…"

* * *

"I won't be gone very long, Tom." Julia Paris was rushing around the kitchen - picking up her purse, putting it down, riffling through a drawer, then a basket on the counter; all this interspersed with a good bit of staring blankly at the marble counter, as if she was trying to make something she needed appear via force of will. "Thank you for skipping practice to be here. I asked your grandmother to change her appointment, but she insisted. I'd just feel better if someone's here with him. Just in case he...well, just in case."

"Mom, it's fine, really. I don't mind." The teenager leaned casually against the refrigerator, holding out her comm device for when his mother realized that's what she was looking for. "There's something I want to talk to him about anyway."

His mother stopped her frantic pacing. "Oh, darling, I don't know if that's a good idea. He's still… He's not really himself, yet. I think it's best that you just leave him be. He knows you're here - he'll tell you if he needs something. But otherwise…" She spotted the comm device in his hand. "Ah! Thank you, darling! But promise me you'll just leave him alone?"

"Sure, Mom. If that's what you want." He grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter and bit into it. "Hey, you should take Grams out for tea, or shopping or whatever. Take a break. You've barely left the house for weeks. I don't need to be anywhere."

"No, it's better if I stay close. I'll just bring your grandmother to her appointment and then home, and I'll be back." She kissed Tom on the cheek. "Thank you again, darling. And close your mouth when you chew."

Tom waited until he was sure she was well on her way, then dug into his bag for the PADD. He knew his mother didn't want him to go up there, but if she knew the news he had, he was sure she'd change her mind. It didn't feel right telling her yet - his father should be the first one to know. Tom smiled. His dad would be amazed, he was sure, to find out what his son had managed to accomplish without a single member of the extended Paris clan finding out.

Right before his father left on the mission that would end in his capture, he and Tom had had an ugly, knock-down, drag-out fight - the worst they'd ever had, and that was saying something. Since the day a very young Tom Paris visited his father at HQ and performed better than many first year cadets in a flight simulator, Owen started planning his son's career in Starfleet. The problem was, he never bothered to ask Tom what he wanted. After years of dropping hints, complaining, balking but ultimately just following the path his father set before him, something snapped in Tom and he told his father he had no intentions on applying to the Academy. That went over about as well as could be expected.

So when his father and one of his junior officers went missing, Tom was filled with guilt. Their last conversation had been one in which he basically rejected everything his father stood for. Afraid he'd never get to see his dad again, and frustrated that he was unable to help with the rescue effort, Tom took himself down to HQ and met with the commandant of the Academy, relying (successfully) on his last name getting him a meeting. By the time of Owen's rescue, Tom had already completed the entrance exam.

Life was hardly back to normal, however. His father had been hospitalized for nearly a month after Starfleet had gotten him back from the Cardassians; even now that he was home, he rarely left the bedroom he shared with Tom's mother. Tom suspected that Julia wasn't even sleeping in there anymore - one early morning when he was sneaking back into the house after a night out, he spotted her making the bed in the guest room.

He tried to ask her how his father was doing - if he seemed like he was getting better; but his mom always just put him off. She would just repeat the party line that Owen was getting the help and support he needed from Starfleet, and Tom's only job was to work hard at school and make him proud. He tried to talk to his sisters about the screams he had heard at night and how many times he heard his mother crying alone in a locked room. But neither of them lived at home anymore, and they seemed to prefer to bury themselves in their studies and accuse Tom of being overly dramatic rather than hear the truth of things.

But his father had come down for dinner last night, and was enough like himself that he had asked Tom how his grades were and talked with him about what he was studying in history class. Owen said that he might even make it to Tom's parrisses squares tournament next weekend. That's when the younger Paris knew it was time to give his father the good news - Tom had gotten the word two days ago, but had been waiting for the right opportunity to share it.

He knocked softly on the bedroom door, and found it cracked open. "Dad?" he called out softly. "Can I come in?"

His father was sitting in his chair by the window, looking out at the view of the bay. "What is it, Tom?"

"I have some news," he said hesitantly. "I think you'll be pretty happy about it." He approached the chair slowly, chastising himself for his nervousness. _It's just your dad. He's still the same person._ He handed his father the PADD. "Maybe you should read it yourself."

His father studied the PADD silently while Tom fidgeted. _Why won't he say anything?_ he fretted. _He's had time to read it five times over by now!_

"What is this, Thomas?" Not exactly the proud congratulations he'd been expecting.

"Um… my acceptance letter. To Starfleet Academy." _What the hell? Could he not read it? What did those bastards do to him?_ Maybe things were worse than Tom realized.

"Yes, I know that. I'm not an idiot," Owen snapped. "I mean, why the hell do you have one?"

Tom stepped back involuntarily. His father had high expectations for his children and was frequently stern and impatient. But Tom had never heard him speak to any of them like this. He tasted bile in the back of his throat and swallowed hard. "I applied right after you were... after you went missing. I thought this was what you wanted. That maybe…"

Owen threw the PADD onto the floor. "What I want is for you to stop being so damn flighty. What happened to the Naval Patrol you were so _passionate_ about?" he sneered. "My God, Tom, do you always plan on being so aimless? Why don't you try following through on something for a change?"

Tom hurriedly snatched the PADD off the carpet and started to back out of the room. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to bother you."

"Wait."

Tom froze.

"I'm sorry." His father was silent for a long moment, and Tom wondered if that was all Owen was going to say. "I didn't mean to say those things. I'm… I'm not in a very good place right now."

"That's OK." Tom whispered.

He heard a choked sob come from the chair. "Please go," his father pleaded.

Owen stayed in the bedroom for the rest of the week and much of the next one. He didn't make it to the tournament.

* * *

"I'm so sorry, love," Elizabeth said with compassion. "I had no idea."

"No one did," Tom said quietly. "It was classified. No one even told me or my sisters much of anything; I just pieced together what I know from eavesdropping, hacking into my mom's comms, that sort of thing." He stared at the flames and the logs crackling in the fireplace. "A few weeks after that, he came downstairs and went back to work like it never happened. It was so surreal - we all pretended like it was just another day, like nothing had changed." Tom sighed loudly. "Anyway, that's why he's like he is. And why I ended up at the Academy. It's not that bad, really - lots of people would kill to be in my position. And I do love the flying. I'm good at it, too."

"But is Starfleet your passion, dear?"

Tom stood up and crouched in front of the fireplace, using the old fashioned iron poker to jab at the flaming logs. "What difference does it make? Maybe I don't even have a passion. My Dad was probably right - I would have gotten bored in the Naval Patrol after a month and ended up at the Academy anyway."

"I don't think you really believe that," Elizabeth said. "Tom, I don't doubt that your intentions were good in going to the Academy. And I don't doubt that your father loves you and wants what's best for you. I'm just not sure he knows what that is. Or even that you know what that is."

"Oh, and I suppose you do?" Tom retorted.

"No, I don't suppose I do," she said, laughing a little. "I suppose I'm being a frightful old busy body. But I do know that you can't live your whole life based on getting someone else's approval. And if you do, someday you're going to wake up and wonder who you are and how you got there."

Tom shrugged, honestly not sure if he was annoyed with Elizabeth because she was dead wrong about him and his father; or because he knew she was right. Mitchell broke the silence between them by announcing dinner. Tom felt Elizabeth come to stand behind him.

"Truce?" she said. "It _is_ Christmas, after all."

When Tom stood and turned towards her, he found himself once again completely disarmed by the genuine affection for him that he saw in her expression. She knew the moment he broke and wrapped him in a warm hug, something he hadn't had from either of his parents in what felt like a long, long time. Tom sighed. "Truce," he agreed. "I know you mean well. I just think I need some room to figure this all out for myself, you know?"

"Well, on that we are very much agreed." Elizabeth smiled up at him. "Now let's go see what Mitchell's been up to in there."

The Day family had a long standing Christmas Eve tradition of having a quiet moment of reflection and gratitude before starting their holiday dinner. As Tom took Elizabeth's and Charlie's hands to complete the circle, he knew what he was most grateful for was finding this family - people that didn't care what his last name was, and didn't have any expectations for what he should become; but rather accepted Tom Paris for who he was now, warts and all.


	5. Chapter 5

_August 2368_

"Rise and shine... _Lieutenant_."

Tom groaned in response to the chipper voice that felt like a knife being stabbed directly into his skull. Who the hell had the code to his quarters? And why was this person so fucking loud? He opened one cautious eye to see his best friend and, as of two weeks ago, fellow _Exeter_ crewmember, sitting on the bed next to him, freshly showered and shaven and dressed in a pristine uniform.

"Charlie," he croaked. "What are you doing in my bed?"

"Try again, hotshot," Charlie replied, grinning broadly.

Tom opened his other eye and tried to lift his head, only to immediately regret the action. He'd seen enough, though. "What am I doing in _your_ bed?" he asked, with just a hint of panic.

Charlie chuckled. "Don't worry, Paris, nothing happened. I was a perfect gentleman."

Tom put his aching head under the pillow and made a rude hand gesture in what he hoped was Charlie's general direction. "Why did I recommend you for the new engineering position again?" he muttered.

Tom felt Charlie's weight shift off the mattress. "Maybe because someone needs to convince you it's a bad idea to challenge a full-blooded Russian to 'best two out of three' in a drinking contest, when you've already lost the first two rounds."

"Stankevich?" Tom groaned. The security officer that lived three doors down from Charlie had at least ten centimeters and thirty kilos on him, and Tom was pretty sure he put vodka in his cornflakes instead of milk.

"That would be the Russian I'm referring to," Charlie agreed. "And I think he took it easy on you, it being your promotion party and all."

Tom lay very still on the bed, moaning a bit to see if that would relieve any of his considerable discomfort. He was also trying to remember last night. There was a lot of toasting. And cheering. And then the senior officers left, the synthehol was put away, and the real stuff came out. He also remembered the feel of warm lips and soft ebony skin… _Oh shit_.

Tom lifted his head and directed a bleary eyed stare at the engineer. "Did I...Did I make out with Odile Launay?" he asked with trepidation.

"No!" Charlie assured him, and Tom flopped back onto the bed, relieved. "You tried to," his friend continued. "But I'm pretty sure she was put off by the smell of vomit on your breath."

Tom really wished Charlie hadn't said the 'v' word. Using a previously well-hidden reserve of energy, he pushed himself quickly off the bed and into the head. Over the sound of his retching he heard Charlie calling to him. "I took the liberty of replicating you a fresh uniform! Mi shower es su shower! You'd be doing us both a favor!"

One sonic shower and one hypospray of analgesic later, Tom emerged from Charlie's bathroom feeling not human, exactly, but less like he had been the ball in a game of Nausicaan rugby. He saw that Charlie had prepared his favorite hangover cure for him. "You remembered!" he said, almost managing cheerful.

"Well, you've been jogging my memory a lot lately," Charlie said, pushing the coffee and peanut butter toast to where Tom had sat down at the small table.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tom asked, suspicious at his former roommate's tone.

"Just that I've seen you drink more in the last two weeks than you did the entire four years we were at the Academy."

Tom was not in the mood for this conversation. "Well, that's because you didn't spend much time with me in Marseilles," he said lightly.

All the humor was gone from Charlie's face. "Tom, I'm serious. I'm a little worried about you."

"I'm sorry," Tom responded after a moment. "Have you seen me missing shifts? Showing up late? Otherwise remiss in my duties? Or did I not just get a fucking promotion? You're not my mother, Day. And you're not your mother, either." He got up to leave.

Charlie blocked his way to the door. "Tom, wait. I'm not trying to accuse you of anything," he said, trying to placate him. "I just want to make sure you're OK. If you are, then great. I'll mind my own business."

Tom eyed him warily, wondering if he was really going to back off so quickly. "I'm fine. It's just intense out here. I need to blow off some steam when I'm not on duty. That's all."

"Great," Charlie said. "Glad to hear it. So let's sit down and finish breakfast."

The two friends ate in silence for awhile, although the residual pounding in Tom's head was providing him with his own private soundtrack. And, as the pilot had suspected, Charlie wasn't giving up as easily as it first appeared. "So what you said last night, when I was dragging you back to my quarters? You didn't mean it?"

Tom suspected a trap, but he was too curious a person not to pursue this. "What did I say, exactly?"

"That you're going to resign your commission." Charlie was staring at him intently.

 _Oh,_ Tom thought. _I guess I did say that out loud._

All day yesterday, Tom had been on edge. His promotion ceremony was scheduled for 1800, and he hadn't heard a thing from his family. The _Exeter_ was over two weeks out from Earth, and Tom only found out about the promotion a week ago. So he didn't expect any of his family to physically be there, not even the Admiral. But it wasn't unheard of for connected family members to ask to be present via subspace communications, or even say a few words about the officer in question. But even though he'd sent a comm to the Admiral at the first opportunity, he'd had nothing but radio silence.

His duty shift finished an hour before the ceremony was supposed to start, so he decided to head to his quarters for one last check of his messages. He felt his heart skip a beat and his stomach drop when he saw the blinking message light as soon as he opened the door. He cursed himself for still caring so much, but at the same time he couldn't resist the urge to immediately check to see who it was from. When he saw it was from his father, he clicked open the comm.

 _Dear Tom,_

 _It's good to hear from you. I'm glad you're doing well. Captain Songkhla contacted me himself about your promotion. He's a good man, Songkhla, although rumor has it he's gotten considerably softer over the years. That doesn't take anything away from your accomplishment, of course. I'm not sure if you're aware, but you are only the sixth officer from your class to make JG. I think this only goes to show that listening to me is in your best interest. Trust me when I tell you that you have the makings of a great officer in you. But this isn't permission to rest on your laurels. You need to work twice as hard now, to make it to the next level._

 _I'm sorry we can't be there for the ceremony. Your mother sends her love. We'll share your good news with your sisters next time we see them._

 _Love,_

 _Dad_

Tom stared at the words on the console. _Love, Dad._ He should have just written "Sincerely, Vice Admiral Paris." It would have been more honest. Tom looked at all the passive aggressive digs the old man had taken at him in one little note. _Well, Tom - since you let me control you like a puppet, and you landed yourself a captain that gives out lieutenant pips like they're going out of style, looks like you're not going to totally embarrass the family name. Not this year anyway._ Would it be so fucking hard for the man to at least _pretend_ he was proud of his son?

 _What the hell am I doing here?_ Tom had paced his small quarters. He once thought getting into the Academy was the answer. That clearly backfired. And then he thought if he did well there - showed his father what he was capable of, that would be it. And then it was maybe once he graduated, and was out of his father's shadow. But apparently the Admiral's shadow spread over the whole fucking quadrant. So he busted his ass for two years, made lieutenant _(but only after five of your classmates did, Thomas_ ); and for what? He wasn't happy, and apparently his father never would be, either.

"Tom? Did you mean it? Are you really resigning?" Charlie asked, bringing Tom back to the present.

He looked up from his coffee mug to meet his friend's concerned expression. He took a deep breath. "Shit, Charlie. I think I am."

A small smile crossed his friend's lips. "Is it because you don't want to hang out with me anymore?"

Tom grinned back at him. "Absolutely. I can't stand the sight of you." Suddenly gripped with panic, Tom pressed his face to hands. "What am I saying? I can't do this. I can't throw away everything I worked for."

Charlie had come around to Tom's side of the table, and put his hand on his shoulder. "Sure you can. Because you weren't working for _this_ , Tom. If you were, you wouldn't be drinking yourself into oblivion at every opportunity. I think we both know what you've really been after."

"Well, quitting Starfleet sure won't get it for me. What the hell is my father going to say?" Tom whispered.

He heard Charlie let out a little snort of laughter. "Probably nothing. I imagine he's going to stop speaking to you."

Tom laughed. Thank God for Charlie. "Good point."

"Until," Charlie continued, "he realizes that his son must have some pretty serious cojones to give up a coveted, successful career in Starfleet just to find a little happiness." Charlie sat back across from Tom at the table. "He does love you, Tom. He wouldn't care so much about what you do with your life if he didn't. He just doesn't understand you very well. That'll come...someday."

"Or it won't," Tom said grimly.

"Or it won't," his friend agreed. "But staying in a career you hate isn't going to change that." Charlie kicked his leg under the table. "Hey, I'm not trying to push you to do anything you're not ready to do. But know I'll support you no matter what."

"At the risk of sounding like a sentimental asshole," Tom said, meeting his friend's eyes, "thanks. For being such a good friend."

"Man, Paris, you've gone softer than a fucking tribble," Charlie scoffed at him. "And you're welcome. But we better get moving - we're supposed to be at the shuttle bay in less than fifteen."

"Crap, I almost forgot," Tom complained. "Who's going on the mission with us anyway?" Tom suddenly looked alarmed. "Shit, Stankevich isn't the security officer, is he?"

"Nope," Charlie replied. "Bruno Katajavuori. You're safe." Tom breathed a sigh of relief. The half Finnish man was cheerful and easy going, and more importantly, had begged off from the party pretty early last night. "Don't get too excited, though, Paris. You didn't ask who our science officer is."

"Oh no," Tom groaned.

"Oh yes," Charlie said, a trace of an evil smile on his face. "But I'm sure Lt. Launay will be thrilled to see you again once she knows you've brushed your teeth." Charlie stopped him before they left his quarters. "You sure you're OK to fly today? You still look pretty green. And like you went ten rounds with a Klingon."

Tom waved him off. "I'm fine, Charlie. Caldik Prime is a milk run. I could do it in my sleep."


	6. Chapter 6

_September 2368_

Tom fastened the two pips, one solid and one black, to his collar. He really wished his mother had brought him civvies to change into. Just looking at his uniform made him feel nauseated; actually putting it on made him want to start screaming and never stop. But doing that would certainly put a damper on his imminent discharge from the hospital, so he stuffed down the urge until it was buried and well-secured, just like he'd done a dozen times before. And that was just today.

Physically, he was told, he was mostly recovered. Mentally? That was a bit more vague, and his muddy prognosis certainly wasn't made more clear by the fact that he lied nearly every time he opened his mouth these days, ( _Yes, I slept fine last night. No, having an Admiral as a father wasn't that much pressure. Yes, he is very supportive. No, I still don't really remember much about the accident._ ) His team of counselors (that's how screwed up he was, he needed a whole fucking _team_ ) had now decided that getting him out of a clinical setting and into a more familiar one would be beneficial - hence he was going back to stay in his childhood bedroom, for at least the two weeks before his next "fit for duty" assessment. Given how much Tom was dreading this time at home, he was likely going to spend much of his copious free time during the next fourteen days trying to find information on how to convince Starfleet counselors that one is space-ready.

It was ironic really. If Tom hadn't completely lost the ability to see the humor in, well, anything, he'd probably laugh. He finally was the center of his mother's attention like he had always wanted; his father was occasionally talking to him like he was another actual human being, instead of a lump of clay that he was molding into the perfect Starfleet officer. But now all he wanted was for his parents, for everyone really, to leave him the hell alone.

The immediate aftermath was a blur at best. He only knew the details of how he got back to Earth because Kathleen had told him. Apparently, his mother had been against anyone saying anything to Tom about the severity of his injuries or the details of the accident, feeling it was too traumatic for him - if he didn't remember it on his own, then he didn't need to remember it at all. But Kathleen, who'd just returned from working near the Cardassian border providing medical care for refugees, had vehemently opposed their mother in this. At least, vehemently opposed her when Julia Paris wasn't actually in the same room. (Tom may have had trouble standing up to their father, but Kathleen had had enough legendary battles with their mother for them to rival him and Owen as most dysfunctional parent-child relationship. Both siblings envied middle child Moira, who seemed to sail through her time in the Paris family home barely registering on either parents' radar.). So once Tom's recovery was more certain, on a day when Julia left the hospital for a few hours to shower and change clothes, Kathleen told her little brother to ask her whatever he wanted, and she'd answer him as honestly as she could.

So that's when he found out his injuries were so extensive that treating them was well beyond the capability of the medical staff at the Caldik Prime facility. He'd been put in stasis on the _Exeter_ for the two week trip at high warp, the ship giving up her mission providing security for the small but strategically located base, just to get an Admiral's son the medical care he needed. It made sense, hearing this - at quiet moments, and in his dreams, Tom had flashes of feeling trapped and strapped down, of crying out for help and begging for someone to save his friends before some unknown person would appear and give him a hypospray that sent him back to oblivion.

If Kathleen was surprised that he didn't ask for any details of the crash itself, she didn't say so. Maybe she suspected the truth. Because despite what he told his parents, his doctors, his counselors - he hadn't forgotten. Every moment of the crash and the events that led up to it stood out in Tom's memory in perfect, crystalline clarity. He could feel every tap he made on the console, he could hear every scream of his friends, he could see every rock in the viewscreen as they plummeted down towards the planet. He remembered seeing Odile's lifeless eyes and broken body strapped into the seat next to him. He remembered hearing the moans coming from the back of the shuttle - were they Charlie's? Bruno's? - disproving the lie everyone told him: that the others had died instantly, and no one had suffered.

His first clear memory after passing out in the wreckage was waking up to the sounds of quiet crying. Immobilized by pain and medical equipment, Tom couldn't see who was sitting near the foot of his biobed. Perhaps a change on the monitors showed he was awake, because within only a few moments of Tom regaining consciousness, his father appeared within his line of sight, his eyes red and swollen. What Tom wouldn't give to return to that moment: when, whether due to his injuries or the pain meds or some combination, he hadn't yet remembered what had happened or where he was. He barely remembered who he was, just then; he only knew that his father was with him, holding his hand.

He tried to ask Owen what happened, but it came out as little more than a strangled gasp. "Shh, son," his father murmured. "Don't try to talk. There was an accident, but it's nothing you need to worry about right now. Just rest. I'm here with you."

But with the word "accident," everything that happened came rushing back to Tom like a tsunami. He felt a hysterical sob fight to come out, but was lucid enough to know he didn't want to cry in front of the Admiral. Despite his pain and injuries, he tried to twist his body away from his father to hide his face. He soon felt strong arms grip his shoulders, holding him gently but firmly to the bed; he smelled the aftershave his dad had worn since Tom was a child, as Owen pressed his forehead against his son's. "It's OK, Tom," his father whispered to him. "Let it out. I know it hurts right now, but it's going to be OK. Just let it out." And Tom's father held him as he cried, until, exhausted, he slipped off again into unconsciousness.

His family hadn't left his side since. His mother was there nearly constantly, but his father and at least one of his sisters came daily as well. None of them seemed to care that Tom was often monosyllabic, and sometimes completely unresponsive. His mother had clearly enacted a rule saying there was to be no discussion of Starfleet or any even vaguely related subjects, which meant he heard a lot about Moira's love life and about gross medical cases Kath had seen. His father, having no safe topics within his purview, had taken just to reading to him. Sometimes Whitman, one day it was Edgar Allan Poe (Mom stopped that one when she heard. "Owen! What are you thinking? That's far too morose."), and one day his father brought Treasure Island. It reminded Tom of when he was eight and had broken his leg in three places. The young active boy had chafed at having to spend so many days in bed and his father had read to him about Long John Silver and young Jim Hawkins to soothe him. Tom wondered if Owen remembered too, or if it was just a coincidence. He didn't care enough to ask.

And then, a little over a week after Tom had woken up on Earth, his father arrived with a guest. "Tom? This is Commander Cheng from Internal Investigations. It's part of his job to review accidents, to ensure there aren't changes in protocol we should make to keep everyone safer."

Tom wished he could stand at attention, but his shattered pelvis wasn't strong enough for him to stand unassisted yet. He was grateful he could at least sit up, although he'd have preferred a chair to the biobed. "A debrief?" he asked the diminutive man in red, as the commander and his father each took a seat.

The Commander smiled at him, in a distant sort of way. "Nothing so formal, Lieutenant. I understand from your father and your doctors that your memories of the accident are still a bit vague. I just want to find out what you do know. I'll also forward my findings to Personnel, to help determine if we should reassign you or send you back to your old posting. Once you're fit for duty, of course."

Tom looked up at that. "I'm not sure I want reassignment," he said quietly.

"Nothing's been decided yet, Tom," his father answered. "There's a very good chance you'll be sent back to the _Exeter_. Don't worry about that right now."

Tom continued to look at Commander Cheng, even though his father had been the one that had spoken. "That's not what I meant. I mean - I'm not sure I want to stay in Starfleet."

The Admiral stood at that, grabbing Tom's forearm. "You're not in the state of mind to make a decision like that, Thomas. It's too soon. Now I want you to listen to the commander's questions and answer them as best you can. We can talk about your future after he's finished."

"Yes, sir," Tom said dully.

Cheng began with a dispassionate technical review of the accident using data they'd been able to recover from the damaged flight recorder and the wreck itself. Tom wondered idly if Cheng had been chosen for this job because or in spite of his near Vulcan lack of emotion as he reported on the event that had changed Tom's life. The heart of the problem, it seemed, was a clogged plasma injector. It had caused a back up in the EPS and then a cascade failure in the power transfer grid. In the middle of space, this mistake would have meant nothing other than a minor inconvenience. But if it happens while a shuttle is entering an atmosphere...

"Something like this should have been caught in the pre-flight check," Cheng was saying.

"By the engineer, not the pilot," responded the Admiral.

"No one is accusing the lieutenant of anything, Admiral. He's simply the only person we can ask."

"Tom? Do you remember anything about the engineering pre-flight?"

 _Hey, Tom - I'm getting some weird readings on the plasma injectors. It's probably nothing, but I better run a diagnostic.  
_ _How long is that going to take?  
_ _Stop whining, Paris - the vodka didn't drink itself. Maybe half an hour. An hour if I need to change out an injector.  
_ _But you said it's probably nothing! We can be there and back by then!_

"It doesn't matter. Even if the issue was too minor to be caught in pre-flight, at the first sign of an EPS overload, the shuttle should have given a warning. Who would have been seated at the Ops station, Lieutenant?"

"Lt. Launay."

 _Lt. Paris. I need to make sure the sensors are calibrated correctly so we get the necessary data during our descent. Can you watch my station for a few minutes?  
_ _Only if you stop calling me "Lt. Paris."  
_ _I'm afraid if I call you anything else, you'll take it as encouragement.  
_ _Look, I'm sorry. I wasn't at my best last night - let me make it up to you. Dinner?  
_ _I'll consider it. Watch my station._

"Lieutenant? Did you hear me?"

Tom looked at the commander. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"Did Lt. Launay make any note of a warning about the EPS?"

 _Paris! What are you doing?  
_ _What? Wow. Sorry, I think I dozed off. Everyone ready for descent?_

"Lieutenant? Do you think she missed it?"

 _Fuck. Fuck! I can't pull out! Brace for impact!_

"Tom, answer him. Do you not remember? Is that the issue?"

Tom stared at his hands, his perfect, undamaged hands, neatly folded together on the blanket. "No, sir. That's not the issue."

Owen was standing again, looming over him. "Then tell him, Tom. Tell him what he needs to hear." His father sat on the edge of the biobed. "I know you're tired. And I know you're sad about your friends. But the first step to getting past it is this right here, Tom. Tell the commander what he needs to know."

"Admiral…"

Owen put a hand up to Cheng. "Did she miss it, or not, Tom? Tell us."

Tom looked at his father. He knew what Owen wanted him to say. _So just say it. They're dead. What does it matter anymore?_

"She must have, Commander. She didn't say anything to me about any EPS issue."

"Thank you, Lt. Paris," Cheng rose from his chair. "That's all I need for now. I'll discuss this with Admiral Nmembe and let you know if we need to have another meeting."

 _Tom, what are you doing? Why did you say that?_ Shit. Why could he hear Charlie's voice?

"You can contact me directly, Cheng. I'll coordinate."

 _You know exactly what happened, Tom. Tell them the truth!_

"Of course, Admiral."

 _You won't be able to live with this, Tom. I know you. You don't want to get his approval this way._

"This will all be classified, correct? Day was a close friend of my son's. I don't want his family getting word that he might have been responsible in any way."

 _Tell them, Tom!_

"They won't, Admiral. In cases like this, when the responsible parties are deceased, we don't make any details public."

Tom suddenly found his voice. "Commander?"

"Yes, Lt Paris?"

The door chime sounded. His father barked in response. "I told you we were not to be disturbed!"

"Owen, it's me," his mother said calmly when the door slid open. Owen's expression softened as it always did at the sight of Julia Paris. "I know this is important, but Tom has a physical therapy session in an hour, and he really should rest beforehand."

"Of course, Julia," Owen said. "The commander and I were just leaving. I'll come by later this evening to see you, Tom." The two men walked into the corridor before Tom could stop them.

"Tom! What are you doing? You're not supposed to get up by yourself!" His mother rushed to his side to stop him from climbing out of bed.

"Let me go! I have to talk to him! I have to tell them!" Tom tried to push his mother off, but a shooting pain went through his hip and he collapsed back against the bed. "Mom, please. I have to talk to him."

"Shh, darling," she soothed. "It's all right. You can tell Dad later. Just lie still now." He continued to struggle against her, his pleading becoming more and more incomprehensible, until the nurse his mother called for arrived, and sent him off to unconsciousness with the press of a hypospray.

There were so many chances after that, for Tom to set the record straight. But before he could speak, he would imagine his mother's heartbreak and his father's crushing disappointment and he would stay silent. He met with the counselors, with their understanding faces and promises of confidentiality, and thought maybe he could work up the courage to tell one of them. But then one of them would mention they'd heard Tom was a gifted pilot, or maybe ask him what his father or grandmother or great-uncle was _really_ like, and he stayed silent. With every day that passed and every opportunity that Tom let slip by, it seemed more and more impossible for him to ever make his confession.

And now he was leaving for home. He checked the pips in the mirror, to make sure they were on straight. He tried to ignore the shadows under his eyes and the gauntness of his face. The door chimed.

"I'm ready, Mom," he called out. "You can come in."

"Tom? It's not your mum, love, it's me," said a sad soft voice behind him.

Tom swallowed hard as he turned to meet Elizabeth Cornwall's eyes. The shadows were there, too. "What...How did you get in here?"

She gave him a small smile. "It's amazing what you can get away with when you're bereaved." She walked quickly towards him and had wrapped Tom in a hug before he could react.

Tom stiffened as her arms closed around him. _Just hug her back, you fucking coward. It's the least you can do!_ But Elizabeth broke free before he could make his own arms respond.

"Oh, love, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking! Are your injuries still bothering you?" She gave him a worried look.

"No," he said, moving away from her and towards the window. "It's not that. It's only…." his voice trailed off. He had no idea what to say to her. Was "I'm sorry" an adequate response when you screw up so badly you take someone's only child away from them? And can't even be honest about it?

"I feel terrible that I haven't been by to see you before now. But your family's been understandably protective, and I didn't want to force the issue." Elizabeth sat on the edge of the empty bed, situating herself between Tom and the door. "I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am."

Tom stared at her, dumbfounded. "You? You're sorry? What...what could you possibly be sorry for? I'm the one… I should be…"

Elizabeth interrupted his stammering with her kind, affectionate smile. "I'm sorry because you were so terribly injured. And because I know being the only survivor of something like this brings its own kind of pain. And because, silly boy, if you haven't noticed, I love you like you were my own." She reached a hand out to him, and almost involuntarily Tom took it.

He felt the tears starting to come. The ones that he hadn't let go since that first day when he woke up to his father at his bedside. _I can tell Elizabeth_ , he thought. _I_ have _to tell Elizabeth_. "You won't," he said to her, as he sat beside her on edge of the bed. "You won't feel sorry for me or love me after I tell you everything."

"I find that very hard to believe," she said, as they both stared out the window. Tom was grateful that she seemed to realize he couldn't look at her right now. "Why don't you let me decide that for myself, after I hear what you need to say?"

"It was my...the crash…" Tom took a long shuddering breath and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

"It's OK, love. There's no rush. I'm not going anywhere."

Another deep inhale. "I did something terrible…"

"Tom? Who's that with you? What's going on?" Julia Paris had entered the room.

Elizabeth turned towards her, still keeping her hand over Tom's. "Hello, Julia."

"Elizabeth! I wasn't expecting you." Tom's mother came around the bed to face them. "I know I said it at the funeral, but I am so sorry for your loss. Charlie was a wonderful boy."

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"There may have been some sort of misunderstanding, Elizabeth," his mother continued. "I know how fond you are of Tom, but he's really not up to visitors outside the family yet. Perhaps no one made that clear to you at the reception desk; I'll have to speak to them. Either way, I really need to get him home. I'm sorry you've come so far for nothing, but maybe in a week or two you can call me, and we can set up a visit." Tom looked at his mother in horror, but was seemingly incapable of producing any sound.

Elizabeth stood, but made no move towards the door. "Of course, Julia. But Tom was just in the middle of telling me something. Could you give us five minutes, and then I'll be out of your hair?"

Julia's smile remained fixed in place. "I'm sure whatever it is can wait until he's home and settled. He can send you a message in a few days, can't you, darling? I'm sure you understand how concerned Owen and I are about his health and well-being right now."

Tom forced himself to speak. "Mom, please stop. It's fine. I'm fine!" He probably would have been more convincing if the words hadn't come out as not much more than a pleading whimper.

"Elizabeth," his mother said, duranium in her voice - she wasn't Admiral Owen Paris' wife for nothing - "please know that I have the utmost sympathy for what you are going through right now. But you're obviously upsetting Tom. I must ask you to leave. Now."

Tom saw Charlie's mother shrink into herself a little, something he'd never seen her do before. "I understand, Julia. Tom, please - call me anytime you need to talk. Day or night, all right?" Her voice trembled on the last sentence, and she walked quickly towards the door of his hospital room.

Tom's body unfroze as Elizabeth Cornwall left the room. "Elizabeth!" he called out. 'Wait!" He saw her turn just as she reached the hallway. "I'm sorry! It should have been me! I should have been the one that died!" The door slid closed on her stricken face, and Tom heard his mother call for a nurse.


	7. Chapter 7

_Christmas Day 2368_

Tom stepped out of the transport station just outside the center of Concord, and shuddered at the cold. He'd forgotten how terrible the weather could be in New England in the winter. He looked up at the fat wet snowflakes coming down, and immediately regretted his choice of footwear. The soft leather boots would be ruined in minutes. He laughed at himself then. Like a washed up pilot had a lot of need for fancy Italian shoes.

It took a moment to orient himself, even with the directions he'd downloaded earlier. He'd never been to this house - they'd only moved here...after. He turned up his collar in a futile attempt to block out the cold and made his way through the quiet streets. It was a few hours later in Massachusetts than it was in California, and he could see various holiday gatherings going on inside the homes around him. There were people laughing, hugging, sharing presents, but he could hear nothing of their celebrations - it was like he was watching a broken holovid. The accumulating snow muffled the sound of his footsteps on the sidewalk.

His stay at Starfleet Medical had been extended by another five days after his reaction to Elizabeth's visit. The two weeks at his parents' house that followed had been torture. His mother alternated between treating him like he was made of glass and like he was still five years old. And his father… While his father had had a great deal of patience for Tom's physical injuries, he seemed to have very little for Tom's mental ones. Every conversation with him had been about returning to duty; how he owed it to the 'Fleet and he owed it to his friends. To honor them, Owen said, by serving in an exemplary fashion. The few times Tom had tried to bring up resigning, the Admiral had quickly shut him down.

 _He's going to wish he had let me resign after tomorrow_ , Tom thought ruefully. He had tried to go back, he really had. He'd returned to the _Exeter_ and his old position. Initially he'd been afraid that he'd freeze when he was once again behind the conn, or at the controls of a shuttle. But ironically, his piloting was the _only_ thing that didn't suffer once he was back on active duty. He suspected his talent for flying was the reason Songkhla let him stay as long as he did - despite him showing up late, missing shifts, filing incomplete reports when he bothered to file them at all. After multiple meetings with the ship's counselor, the first officer, and the captain himself, it was decided that Tom should return to Earth for three weeks' leave; then, maybe a desk job would be a better fit. Just for awhile, they said, just until Tom was back to his old self.

Too bad Tom was the only one that knew his old self had died with his friends on Caldik Prime. So it was back to his parents' house, where his father wore his disappointment like a death shroud. Five days ago, Tom finally accepted that he couldn't live like this anymore but was too much of a coward to take his own life, so he reached out to Commander Cheng. _Of course I remember you, Lt. Paris. We can meet with Admiral Nmembe the day after Christmas, if that's what you want._

Sooner than he would have liked, he reached the address he was looking for: a tidy grey Cape Cod, dwarfed by its larger Neo-Colonial neighbors. He saw a lit up tree in the window, but there were no other signs of holiday festivities at this house. Not that he was surprised. He mounted the front steps, and knocked, and waited.

The door opened to reveal Mitchell Day, smaller than Tom remembered, unkempt and unshaven. Mitchell's confused expression soon changed to one of recognition. "Tom? Tom Paris? What are you doing here?" He opened the door wider to give Tom admittance, and called out over his shoulder, "Beth! Get down here! Tom Paris is here!"

Tom entered the home, brushing the snow off his shoulders and boots as he crossed the threshold. "Tom! I can't believe it! This _is_ a nice Christmas present!" Charlie's mother came down the stairs and soon had her arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. Tom noticed how she'd allowed her dark brown hair to become shot through with grey. "How can you even be here? Shouldn't you be on the _Exeter_?"

Tom cringed involuntarily at the mention of his posting. He swallowed hard and loosened Elizabeth's arms, carefully removing himself from them. "I'm on leave for a few weeks. Not entirely my choice, to be honest. Captain Songklha thought it was for the best."

"Well, that's all right. You've had a difficult few months. Of course you need some time to collect yourself." Elizabeth reached up to finish brushing the snow out of Tom's hair. "You're getting counseling, of course? You should absolutely still be getting counseling. Now, I don't have much planned for Christmas dinner, it just being Mitchell and me, but we can replicate something. I remember how much you liked my Yorkshire pudding, as well. I can whip that up in an hour. I already have all the ingredients."

Tom just stared at her, stricken and unable to speak. He had a whole speech planned, had carefully plotted out every word. He had just never anticipated that Charlie's mother would still be so fucking _kind_ after what she had lost.

"Beth," Charlie's father gently interrupted her attempts to unbutton Tom's jacket. "I don't think he's staying. Are you, Tom?"

Tom looked at him. Was this Mitchell's way of asking him to leave? But no, there was kindness there, too. Mitchell Day just knew how damn awkward this was for him. _My God, he's trying to make things easier for me. What have I done?_

"No, you're right, Mr. Day..." Tom started.

"It's still Mitchell, Tom. It will always be Mitchell."

"Mitchell." Tom restarted. "Elizabeth. I can't stay. I just came here to tell you… I came here to..." He took a shuddering breath. "Shit, I'm even screwing this up."

"Take your time, love," Elizabeth put her hand on his arm and squeezed it reassuringly.

Tom shook himself, trying to regain his focus. He met Elizabeth's eyes. "I came here to apologize. For everything. For things you don't even know about yet. I'm going to HQ tomorrow, and after that - it's all going to come out. You're going to hear things - about me, about the accident. Terrible things. And they'll probably all be true. But I wanted you to hear about them in my own words first." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a PADD. "You don't owe me any favors, but I'm going to ask you for one anyway. Wait to read this until after I've left. Please."

Elizabeth took the PADD from him. "Of course, Tom. But please just stay. I'm sure it's not as bad as you think. We can talk it through. We used to have some great talks, you and I." She smiled at him then - probably the gentlest, most compassionate smile he'd ever been honored with.

"We did," he said, tears forming in his eyes. "We really did. But I have to go. I want to thank you, though, both of you. For always being so good to me. For loving me, like I was…" He turned back to the door and put his hand on the knob. "I just wish I deserved it." Tom stepped out onto their porch quickly, desperate to get away before they could say one more thing.

"Tom!" He heard Elizabeth call after him. "Promise us you'll write! Tell us how you're doing!"

But Tom didn't promise. He didn't stop or even slow as he walked down the street away from the house, the falling snow covering his tracks.

* * *

 **A/N:** Originally, this was going to be the end of the story. But it made me sad, even though we all know it works out OK. So I decided to write a little epilogue to cheer myself up. One of those "it's so sweet you should probably brush your teeth afterwards to prevent cavities" epilogues. So for those of you with a preference for the melancholy, you are welcome to stop here. If you prefer to end on more of a upbeat note, I'll post the epilogue tomorrow!


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** In hindsight, it occurs to me that this is more an epilogue to Redemption than it is to this story, but that one's long done, and this one isn't (until now), so you'll have to bear with me.

Epilogue

 _May 2383_

Miral had yet to stop talking. She talked as Tom closed the front door of their home in La Mesa. She talked the entire way to the transport station. She talked while they waited for their turn to beam across the continent. And she was still talking as they walked to their final destination. Not just to Tom - she also talked to Toby and Rosebob (who both insisted on making the journey with them in a small purple backpack), to the small mop-like dog and his person that were waiting in line next to them at the transport station, to the daffodils they passed as they walked along the quaint New England streets. B'Elanna blamed Tom for their daughter's garrulous nature. _This is all you, Paris,_ his wife liked to say, when she could get a word in. _Why couldn't she be a secretive, morose child like I was?_ Tom was 98% sure she was joking.

"Have I met Uncle Elizabeth and Auntie Mitchell before, Daddy?" By Tom's count, this was the eighth time the little girl had asked this question. He had stopped trying to correct the gender mismatch around time five.

"Yes, but it was a long time ago. You were just a tiny baby. So tiny you fit in the palm of my hand." This was an old joke between them. "I almost lost you in a pocket once."

"Daddy! Be serious. You would not lose me." She was so indignant at the idea she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and put her hands on her hips. It warmed Tom's heart to see his wife standing there in miniature.

"No, you're right," he said, throwing her into the air as she laughed. "I would never lose you! You're too noisy!"

"Daddy!" she screamed and kicked with delight.

Tom arranged the little girl (and the purple backpack and Toby and Rosebob) on his shoulders and continued on their way, his long legs carrying them much faster than when he had to match her pace. "Auntie Elizabeth and Uncle Mitchell last saw you when you were about ten months old. And then you and me and Mommy lived on Mars for a while, and then Auntie Elizabeth had a job on Betazed for a while, but now they're back."

"And now we're all on Earth!" Miral shrieked.

"Yes," Tom said, cringing a little as she had yelled directly into his ear. "Now we're all on Earth."

"I like Earth, Daddy."

Soon they arrived at the small cottage Tom had last seen nearly fifteen years ago. He paused on the sidewalk, lost in a bad memory. Miral, back on the ground again, had no patience for melancholic reminiscing and dragged him by the hand to the front door. "Knock, Daddy," she instructed.

The door was soon opened by a delighted Mitchell Day. "Tom! You're here! And B'Elanna as well!" he cried, kneeling down. "You're much shorter than I remember."

Miral peered at him skeptically from where she'd chosen to situate herself behind her father's legs. "I am Miral Kathryn Paris," she said solemnly. "B'Elanna is my mother. She is very taller than me. But not so tall as Daddy."

"Well, Miral," Mitchell said gently, "I'm very pleased to make your re-acquaintance. I'm hoping you can help me out today. You see, I've made far too many chocolate chip cookies, and I need someone to help me eat them."

"I can help you!" Miral said valiantly.

Mitchell stood and gave Tom a tight hug and a warm smile before ushering them both through the door. "Well, then, thank goodness you showed up."

A short while later, Miral was in the garden, close on Mitchell's heels. He was trying to coax their poora, a sort of Betazoid feline, out from under the hydrangeas. Miral had determined it was of the utmost importance that Toby (the targ, of course), and Rosebob, (a lurid green toy version of a poora that the Days had sent Miral last year for Christmas), have a proper introduction to the household pet. Tom and Elizabeth sat watching them from the porch, a light spring breeze infusing the yard with the smell of lilacs.

"She's lovely, Tom. And I'm not one of those people who says that about every child they meet. There's a reason Charlie was an only." Elizabeth said.

"All the best bits are her mother's doing," Tom replied, smiling at his daughter's antics. She was now giving Mitchell advice at how to best get the poora out. A Flotter story was her newest idea.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I see a lot of your good bits in her, too," said Elizabeth, as she reached over to squeeze his hand. "It _is_ too bad B'Elanna couldn't make it. I know I just saw her on Betazed last month, but I've missed our little chats. I do imagine she's uncomfortable, this far along in her pregnancy."

Tom chuckled, "To be honest, I think she's feeling just fine. Her due date's still two months away. I have a sneaking suspicion she saw an opportunity for some peace and quiet and decided to grab it."

"Smart woman, then," Elizabeth laughed with him. "And one that's after my own heart."

Miral came charging up the porch steps. "I need more cookies!"

Tom grabbed her around the waist and started to wipe her face with a napkin. "You've had at least four. The evidence is still all over your face. You're going to get me in trouble with Mommy."

Miral tried to squirm out of Tom's grasp, "You get yourself in trouble with Mommy!"

Tom held her close. "You're not wrong. But I'm still stopping you at four cookies." He kissed the top her head before letting her go to explore the decorations the Days had placed around the porch.

Mitchell came up the stairs much more slowly than his partner in crime, his hands and arms covered in scratches. "Thankfully, I was able to convince Miral that poora are telepathic and she was able to say hi to Toby and Rosebob that way. Taffy was having none of that."

Miral returned to the trio, this time with a framed holo photo in her hand. "Auntie Elizabeth, who is this boy?"

Elizabeth took the picture from her with a wistful smile. "That's our son Charlie, when he was only a few years older than you are now."

"Does he live here?" Miral asked excitedly. "Can I meet him?"

"Miral…" Tom said, starting to rise from his chair. He felt Mitchell's hands press into his shoulders, keeping him seated.

"It's all right, Tom," he murmured. "It's really all right. We _like_ to talk about him."

"I'm sorry, love, but Charlie died many years ago," Elizabeth said gently.

"So he can't visit?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"That's very sad. Are you very sad?" Miral took Elizabeth's hand and studied her face.

"I am sad about it, sometimes. But then I remember all the people we know and love because Charlie brought them into our lives, and that makes it better."

"Like who?" Miral demanded.

"Like your dad," Elizabeth replied, reaching over to give Tom's hand another squeeze. "And your mum."

"And me!" Miral cheered.

"Yes, and you," Elizabeth laughed, hugging the girl to her. "You might be my very favorite one. You're certainly the most darling."

* * *

Back in San Diego, Tom sighed deeply and realized that for the first time in the eighteen months since he and B'Elanna decided to part ways with Starfleet, he was experiencing regret. As he looked up the long flight of stone steps that represented the shortest route between him and his house - his arms full of sleeping child and her various accoutrements, as well as a generous bag of chocolate chip cookies - he really wished he could call someone for a site-to-site. _Well_ , he thought, _staring at them isn't going to make them any shorter_ , and he started his climb.

"Daddy," a sleepy voice said into his neck, "I like Uncle Elizabeth and Auntie Mitchell."

"I like them, too, Kitten," he responded, panting a little.

"Can we go back there? I think they are going to miss me."

Tom smiled and kissed her hair. "We can go back any time you want." The stairs didn't seem so bad now. They were really just a minor obstacle, when he thought about it. Just something he needed to get through so he could get back home and be with the people he loved.

The End


End file.
